The Man from Primrose Lane: A Novel

by James Renner

  “A Geiger counter?”

  “Yes.”

  “For what? Was anything radioactive?”

  Sackett shook his head. “We had a team from Akron U come check it out. They didn’t find anything unusual.”

  “It’s a strange request, though.”

  “Yeah,” said Sackett. “The guy made a lot of strange requests. Was there some method to it, some plan? Or was it just a guy going crazy from isolation? Nobody knows because nobody knew him, not really.”

  “Except the guy who killed him.”

  “Maybe it was just a robbery gone wrong,” said Sackett.

  David laughed. “But the fingers. Cutting off the man’s fingers and turning them into pulp in the blender. That seems a little personal.”

  The detective leaned back and considered the writer for a long moment. “I hope I can trust you,” he said. “We’re building a relationship here. I’ll give you some things, like I said, because we’re in a corner with this one. But I got to know I can trust you.”

  “Do you want to talk off the record?”

  Sackett nodded.

  David set down his notebook. “Off the record,” he said.

  Sackett leaned forward and lowered his voice. “There’s a reason why I’m the only one still on this case,” he said. “The coroner is about to revise her ruling.”

  “To what?” asked David.

  “Officially, it will be ruled ‘unknown.’ But we believe it was something like a suicide, in the end,” he said. “The bullet missed the man’s heart. Clean shot. Missed every major artery, bone, and organ. He would’ve lived if he’d called for help or walked to a neighbor’s house. It was the loss of blood from his fingers that actually killed him. He just sat there and bled to death, waited to die. The coroner’s forensic team determined that the man did not put up much of a struggle when his fingers were removed. The lacerations were smooth and definitely perimortem—that means they were cut off before he was dead. We think he cut off his own fingers. First with a knife. Then with a cigar cutter, one of those little guillotines, when there were not enough fingers left to hold the knife steady. He might have put the cigar cutter between his knees, put his remaining fingers in the holes, and squeezed it closed that way. Then he fed them into the blender, probably after whoever shot him left. That’s just conjecture, of course. But we have the knife and bloodied cigar cutter and no gun.”

  “Shit,” said David, rubbing his chin as he processed this information. “He was hiding his identity. He knew that if he went to the hospital, they’d find out who he really was. So he got rid of his prints. But what about his palms?”

  “Sliced with the knife. We got a partial from one. But not enough to feed into IAFIS or anything.”

  “Is it true the house was cleaned of fingerprints?”

  “As far as we can tell, Joseph Howard King wore those mittens every minute of the day. The feds spent a week in there. Spent a whole week and all they came up with were two latent prints. One on the back of the headboard of the man’s bed. The other was inside the lip of the toilet’s reservoir tank. They are from two separate individuals, we’re sure. But we don’t have anything to compare them with, so we don’t know if either one is from our man or if they’re prints from movers and plumbers.”

  “Weird.”

  “This man didn’t ever want to be found,” said Sackett. “What was he so afraid of? What was he so afraid of that he decided it was better to die than to reveal his identity? That’s what I’m trying to figure out. There are few clues to go on. And now that it’s no longer a straight-up homicide, the department doesn’t really want to spend more of its resources tracking down far-flung leads. The FBI has lost interest. Well, that’s not entirely true. There is a retired agent named Larkey. He worked on a number of missing person cases before he left the bureau. He’s consulting on this case.”

  “What’s your relationship with the FBI?”

  “Shaky on a good day. Hard to say if they’ve shared everything they know about our guy. Bunch of overpaid accountants playing cop. A couple good ones, but they don’t give those guys much of a leash anymore. That’s all off the record, of course. On the record again, I would say that the Akron Police Department welcomes the FBI’s help and cooperation.”

  “And there’s no decent picture of this guy, huh?” asked David. “Other than the blurry photos they used in the paper?”

  Sackett raised a finger and spun in his chair. He rifled through the desk behind him for a minute before coming up with a glossy photograph, which he handed to the writer.

  The first thing David noticed was that the photo had been digitally altered, cropped, and enlarged from its original size until the pixels stood out like little circles of color, like those impressionist paintings, like a Manet. In the foreground was a shoulder draped in maroon rayon. Behind the shoulder was the profile of an old man with a long face. His skin wrinkled and sagged on the side in deep dark creases. His eyebrows were thick caterpillars, so white they were nearly iridescent. He stared ahead with a scowl set upon his face. Again, David was reminded of his uncle Ira.

  “That’s my little brother,” said Sackett. “That guy behind him is the Man with a Thousand Mittens, Joseph Howard King, or whoever you want to call him in your book.”

  “You took this?”

  Sackett nodded. “Only known picture of him,” he said.

  “That’s a hell of a coincidence,” David replied.

  The detective took the photograph back. “Good detectives don’t believe in coincidences,” he said. “And I didn’t think writers did, either.”

  David suddenly realized that Sackett was staring at him in a way that he didn’t like, a deep stare that seemed to reach into his mind through his pupils, rooting around in there like a probe. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Nah,” he said. “Well, I mean, you didn’t know him, did you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It looked like you recognized him when you looked at that photo.”

  “You’re good,” said David, with a sense of unease. He felt their friendly connection starting to fade like an FM station around the first bend of Appalachian foothills. Sackett hadn’t liked David’s reaction to the photo. Not one bit. “He just looks like my great-uncle Ira. That’s what I noticed. But, really, only as much as I look like Jim Carrey.”

  Sackett laughed. But the laugh sounded canned. So David changed the subject, quickly.

  “Tell me about Katy Keenan,” he said. “And this notebook you found in the house.”

  But the detective looked at the clock in the corner, which read a quarter past four. In the end it always comes down to time.

  “We’ll have to talk about that next time,” said Sackett. “I got a few reports to file before five. Give me a call later in the week and we’ll set something up.”

  “Thank you for your time,” said David.

  “Welcome.”

  He stood up but then the detective spoke again.

  “David? What about the other photo? The one above my desk. Do you recognize the girl in that picture?”

  “Sure,” he said. “It’s Katy Keenan.”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Sackett. “It’s Elaine O’Donnell.”

  David recoiled. Because Elizabeth had always been on the outs with her parents since he’d known her, he had never seen pictures of her grade school years, never looked over her shoulder while she went through family albums. He had that one photo of her as a young girl, curled up on the couch, and then nothing until the ones he’d taken himself, while they were in college. But yes. That’s what his wife—and her twin sister—surely would have looked like at ten years old. He didn’t know what to say. “You’re right,” he managed.

  “I’ve been working on her cold case for years. It’s far outside my jurisdiction, so I do it in my spare time. It was such a big case when we were kids, remember? I was always drawn to it, even back t
hen. A weird hobby. Anyway, they do look alike, don’t they? Elaine and Katy.”

  “At that age, they certainly did.” Now that he had been confronted with the resemblance for the second time, he was left wondering what he was truly looking for in Katy. The implications were unsettling.

  Sackett nodded. “Don’t fuck me over for helping you,” he said.

  David didn’t say anything but waved goodbye instead. He knew better than to make promises this early in a story. Besides, he had to get ready. For the first time in many years, he was going on a date.

  EPISODE FIVE

  TANNER’S HOBBY

  The honeymoon almost destroyed their marriage. The cruise was a present from Elizabeth’s aunt, Peggy, a gift that David suspected her estranged parents had secretly contributed to. A week in the Caribbean; Jamaica, Belize, someplace called Charlotte Amalie. It was a week after their wedding, a month after they graduated from Kent State. She had just gotten a job working the circulation desk at the Kent Free Library; he’d moved from the community paper to an alternative weekly in Cleveland called the Independent. It should have been a nice respite before a new life. Instead it was hell, from the moment they boarded the Carnival Elation until Elizabeth stepped onto the aft deck three days into the journey, intending to commit suicide.

  You had to call it a squall, a storm like this. It beat at the monstrous shiny-white ship as they boarded, rocking the gangway as they inched along. By the time they were halfway up the ramp, Elizabeth was rubbing at a migraine behind her temples. By the time they reached the top, David had ralphed his breakfast over the side, into the gulf.

  “We can take a nap in our room,” he said, rubbing Elizabeth’s back as they waited to board. “It’ll be okay.”

  Though they were large for cruise-industry standards, David found their quarters to be smothering. They couldn’t take a Tums or a Tylenol because their luggage wouldn’t be delivered for another hour, so they lay in the dark above the covers on the double bed and held each other. Outside, the squall took hold of the boat, pitching it slowly to one side and then the other. At times, the good ship leaned so far that David was sure it was going to flip like the Poseidon. He could feel the walls lean in on him and thought of his grandfather’s claims that the walls of the submarine in which he served in WWII had bent inward during emergency dives as the pressure outside grew and grew, reminding everyone that nature, in the end, would eat them up, would swallow them whole.

  Somewhere in the dark, he found sleep. He awoke in the dark, and he was alone.

  “Elizabeth?”

  He sat up and touched his eyelids as they opened and closed. They were open but he couldn’t see the faintest trace of light.

  “Elizabeth?”

  He reached into the darkness but could not be sure his arms were even there. Slowly he walked forward, probing ahead of him. His left hand hit the door to the shower, stubbing his index finger. He felt around for a switch but could not find one. The ship tilted to port and he clunked his right knee against what must have been a chair pushed under a table. He rubbed at the bruise forming there and then collided with the far wall with a weak thud that smarted his nose. There, he felt something. A thin bump in the wall.

  The light clicked on from above like the voice of God, full and brilliant and blinding. He looked around. No Elizabeth. What time was it? He felt as if he’d slept for days. There were no clocks in here.

  David opened the door and peeked out. To his right, the hall seemed to stretch forever, dozens of identical doors on either side painted a dull, calming blue. To the left, more of the same. Still no luggage. He ducked back in for his card key, and set out to find his wife.

  A map posted in the elevator promised this was the best route to the main floor, where the buffet and pool were located. Alarm set in as soon as the doors opened. The first thing he noticed was that it was dark on the other side of the windows that lined the cafeteria. Night had come, bringing with it rolling clouds illuminated by long streaks of lightning breaking like tree branches, above an angry sea. He must have slept for eight hours, at least. The second thing he noticed was that the buffet area was empty. No one was eating. No one was serving. He had not seen a single person since he’d left their room. Had he slept through an evacuation? Was he on a ghost ship?

  A siren sounded from hidden speakers, a trilling noise. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said a soothing male voice, “this is your captain speaking. The time is now nine-thirty. The Newlywed Game will begin in the auditorium momentarily. The casino has opened and there will be a Texas Hold’em tournament commencing at ten. Bingo at ten-thirty in the Blue Room. Also, there is a complimentary sushi bar in the library. It’s still choppy outside but radar shows clear skies in our future. Hang tight and we’ll have you through this soon. Thank you for riding Elation.”

  David let his instincts guide him toward the center of the ship. He became aware of a growing din of conversation that increased as he rounded a corner and found himself in the heart of the vessel. The middle of the Elation was a hollow canyon lined with retail shops and bars. A few hundred people milled about, taking pictures or buying drinks. On a hunch, David made his way to the library. Sitting inside, at a table facing the storm, was Elizabeth.

  She did not look up as he sat down. In her lap was a plate of sushi. She shook her head.

  “I can’t do this,” she said.

  He felt a squeeze in his chest. “It’s only been a week,” he said. “Marriage is supposed to feel weird at first. Am I smothering you? Should I not be so affectionate? I’m still learning. I’m sorry if I—”

  Elizabeth turned to her husband. She gave him a quizzical look. Then she smiled and held up the chopsticks in her left hand. “I can’t do this,” she said. “I’ve never used chopsticks in my life and they don’t give you forks here like they do at the Evergreen Buffet. I asked every bartender and employee I could find and no one has a fork.”

  “Here,” he said, taking the sticks. He twisted them around in his right hand, eventually arranging them into a pincer. He kept the bottom stick taut and used his other fingers to move the top stick as she watched. “Just takes some practice.”

  She took the chopsticks back and allowed him to help her place them correctly in her hand. With great care, she managed to lift a piece of sushi into her mouth. This small victory seemed to appease her immediately.

  “No big deal,” he said.

  “No big deal,” she agreed.

  * * *

  Three days into the cruise they ventured to the buffet and then to the main deck, bathed now in a thick blanket of sunshine, the planks burning their feet in a pleasant way. That evening they waited for the sun to set on a quiet balcony at the rear of the ship, watching the star sink slowly into the sea, where it became liquid fire. Starlight from eighty-eight constellations granted the sea a silvery outline that churned in the wake of the Elation as it made haste for Belize. The sound of the propellers was a low drone that David felt in his thighs. It was the sound of oblivion and it called Elizabeth’s name.

  David said he felt like a drink and led her directly to the closest lounge, a squat room filled by a glittering white grand piano surrounded by a waist-high bar and twenty leather stools. A young man with an Austrian accent and twisty yellow hair sat at the bench, playing “Piano Man” as if he enjoyed it. David and Elizabeth sat a few seats down from a bachelorette party and ordered double mai tais.

  Several glossy music books littered the bar top and the Austrian motioned to them when he finished.

  Elizabeth thumbed through a stack of songbooks. “Ugh. This is all junk. ‘Desperado’? ‘Tiny Dancer’?”

  “Oooh! Oooh!” shouted a blond bachelorette. “This one!” Her friends laughed loudly and dared him to play their most favorite song.

  The Austrian winked and confidently began a genuinely decent version of “Hey There Delilah,” a song David had detested until just then.

  “Ah,” said Elizabeth. She yanked a white binder from
beneath a stack of bound sheet music. A single word was written on the cover in black Sharpie: Rachmaninoff. “Yes. Here we go.” Inside was a xeroxed copy of Rachmaninoff’s Concerto No. 3.

  To David, whose entire knowledge of sheet music was drawn from his experience playing the cornet in middle school, the concerto looked more like an abstract painting of mixed symbols than any coherent piece of music. The measures were loaded with sixteenth notes and key changes, filled with more sharps and staccatos than he could count. His head hurt just looking at it. Anyone who would choose to play Billy Joel and the Eagles, he realized, would most likely not have the practice, skill, or temperament to make it past the first page.

  “He could use an ego check,” she said.

  “Come on. Don’t be mean.”

  “I’m not being mean. I’m being real. They think he’s brilliant. But I don’t think he’s played anything other than shitty rock in years. Probably ever.”

  David took another sip of his mai tai, rested his elbows on the bar, and fished around in his ice with the little umbrella while he waited for this lesson to play out.

  The Austrian finished and before the blonde could suggest something by John Mayer, Elizabeth handed the man the binder.

  He took it from Elizabeth without looking at her. His eyes were focused on the plain white binder. At first his expression remained unreadable. But David noticed a growing recognition roll over his eyes, followed by some emotion between longing and erotic pleasure.

  “Thank you,” said the Austrian. He wiped a film of dust from the cover, then opened the binder and placed it on the piano.

  The bachelorettes had grown quiet. They watched him with concern.

  The Austrian just sat there, staring at the first page.

  Elizabeth laughed behind her hand.

  David waited.

  The Austrian breathed. In. Out.

  He was waiting for the music to take him. And then it did.

  His fingers crashed upon the keys and were lost, there, in a blur of motion and noise; the clunk of flesh on wood converted to the vibration of thin strings singing the most beautiful music. It was the sound of creation, of inspiration, of spirit let loose after a long imprisonment. It was the sound David heard, sometimes, as he drifted off to sleep thinking about the structure of an article. It was the sound of human accomplishment, the sound of a voice speaking over the din of a crowd. It was the sound of a child greeting a parent at the door. It was also the sound of a lover’s gentle whisper.